


Mandalay Region, Republic of the Union of Myanmar

by wildechilde17



Series: The business trilogy [16]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Advent Calendar, Arguing, Clint Barton is a Little Shit, F/M, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, measurement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 21:27:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9030044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildechilde17/pseuds/wildechilde17
Summary: Clintasha Advent Calendar Day Nineteen: Arguments





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [my harley](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=my+harley), [luthorienne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luthorienne/gifts), [andibeth82](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/gifts), [Kali588](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kali588/gifts).



Боже мой, he is less like white noise and more like a mosquito and everything should be possible to make white noise, everything. 

“You are ridiculous.” 

The violently humming air makes her raise her voice to throw it across the narrow path in the quinjet’s bay.

“That's the kind of attack someone might rely on when they don't have evidence for their position,” he says and points at her. 

“I gave you evidence,"

“Yeah and I knocked down each point.”

“According to you.”

“According,” he says smugly despite the smear of grease that comes down his cheekbone and across his nose, “to any fair examination of the...”

“I don't care,” she says, attempting not to yell, “I honestly couldn't care less about this argument.”

And if she had all the time and energy in the world she could not muster even one gram of concern for his insanity.  He has been talking about this for hours.  He won’t stop talking about this.

“And I don't ever want to hear you say that you think America is backwards because of...”

She raises an eyebrow and leans away from the bulkhead she has been trying to force into a pillow. “There are many reasons America is backwards,” she says through gritted teeth attempting tiredly to convey that the first thing on this list would be one Agent Clint Barton, “I don't think I would need to rely on that if I ever wanted to make that point.”

“See!” he roars over the engines like she has made a fatal error, “You are only in support of it because you are a communist.”

Natasha bites down on any visceral reaction she has left to that word, as though he could possibly understand the horrors and the values of that ideology, that dogma, with his Red Dawn education on such matters.

“It's a communist plot?”  she says archly. She curls her lip into a smirk.

“Laugh it up, Red. Who invented it? The French?”

“The French are communists?" 

“Reign of Terror, ring any bells?” he says so facetiously that she can no longer bear to hear his voice.  If they were anywhere but here inside a flying tin can she would walk away.

“Боже мой," she says under her breath.

“You still refuse to address my arguments?!” He is unbuckling the layers of military grade materials from his suit.

“Barton,” she answers, now certain that her ninth and tenth rib are cracked, “you are a sniper you work in kilometers.

“So what,” he says, “You use cups and teaspoons for cooking, it's more natural, it has more poetry”.

“I do not cook.” 

“If you did though... “he carries on like he did not make the argument that poetry should be considered in the field of science… or assassination. “Or The Proclaimers, they didn't sing about walking 804.67 kilometers.”

She is sure the conversion is accurate, his conversions are always annoyingly accurate.

“The world has embraced the metric system, Barton; this is a pointless argument about an abstract system of measurement.”

She cannot get comfortable strapped against her seat, the four point harness seems determined to rest against the already blooming bruises across her rib cage.  She hasn’t slept in thirty nine hours.  He hasn’t slept in forty three.

“Maybe yours is, but mine is completely relational to the human body,” he answers.  There is a deepening bruise across the indentation on his bicep.  She would like to push her fingers into this bruise until he cries.  She needs sleep.  

“Your own foot is twelve inches long?”

“Not mine,” he allows, “but someone's.”

“And I have ten fingers.”  

He grins as though he has caught her in a trap of her own making. She closes her eyes against the glare of his idiocy, he continues to speak, “In India they count in base twelve.”  

Yes, indeed, the cultural monolith that is the Republic of India with its one language, religion and its… No, she is not having this argument. 

“Can I sleep now?

“12 is divisible by 1,2, 3 and 4, 10 is only divisible by 2, 5 and its self,” he carries on like he was unable to stop himself mid rant. “So you admit I'm right?” 

“Yes, Barton, the metric system is a communist plot. The US standard system of measurement is better,” She pushes her head back against the bulk head, attempts to breath without shifting her lower ribs. 

She is going to get some sleep.

“I’m glad you finally see reason. Glad you learned something,” he says.

“What did I learn?” she yells, “That a foot comes from one long dead kings shoe size?! The fact that 12 is divisible by 4?!”

He is stunned only for an instant before yelling back across the small distance “Why don't you use metric time then? Huh?! Cause, it's not natural.”

“Agent Barton?” says the hitherto silent presence in the bay.

“Sir?” Barton responds, finally looking away to the man in the dark suit with a fountain pen.

“Please, shut up.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know I know I am so behind but I will get these all done for you. Its my goal. I wish you all a wonderful at very least day off from work at better secular/religious holiday of family and feasting of your choice. Please know that your reading, kudosing and commenting has made my year.


End file.
